


Midnight

by Bool_Ji



Category: Dark Souls
Genre: Anal Sex, Armor Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2014-10-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:03:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2417663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bool_Ji/pseuds/Bool_Ji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Say pardon again and you shall taste my lightning.”</p><p>- - -</p><p>Artorias and Ornstein have plotless sex. With their armor on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight

"You should sleep."

Though Artorias stands ten feet tall, the knight can be as silent as a mouse. His armor reflects brilliant silver moonlight as he lingers in the doorway. “I cannot. I wanted to see you.”

Ornstein looks at him over his shoulder. It’s been a long day, and while he would like to strip off the rest of his gold plate and slumber himself, he will make time if one of his comrades needs him. Still, he cannot help but wonder if Artorias picked _this particular moment_ to see him. Clad in nothing more than his gauntlets, greaves, and leonine helm, the rest of his body is bare to anyone who cares to…oh, for Gwyn’s sake.

"Close the door."

Artorias obeys and glides to the window.

Ornstein joins his side. Beneath them, Anor Londo sprawls like a treasure trove. Its beauty in the day is unparalleled, but there is something to be said about the dark as well. The city seems to glow, pewter and ivory and lunar moth dust.

"I will not ask you to stay," Ornstein says, folding his arms across his chest, "Our orders come from Lord Gwyn himself. I can no more disobey them than halt the rising tide."

"I am well aware," Artorias replies, leaning against the windowsill, "I will ride in the morrow, do not doubt me. I only…" He trails off into silence, turning his gaze to the shadows below.

Ornstein collects his thoughts for a moment. As captain of the guard, he has a knack for speeches. Whether they be spun as delicately as silk and delivered before a council of gods or roared over the din of battle as quicksilver words come to him on the spur of the moment, monologues are a talent of his.

Gough has suggested he be referred to as Motivational Speaker Ornstein. Ornstein has suggested someone glue the archer’s _mouth_ shut as well.

"You will ride at first light," Ornstein says, "You will confront Oolacile with Sif and Alvina at your side. You will walk through the Dark harboring no fear in your breast. You will find victory and return to us triumphant, the greatest of the four knights of Gwyn. I do not doubt you, so you do not doubt me. You will _shine_ , Artorias. It is a foregone conclusion.”

The Abysswalker doesn’t speak. _Is he truly stunned to silence by those mere lines?_ Ornstein thinks, _I grow weary, and yet my voice provides such comfort?_

Beneath his helm, the captain smirks. Gloating is a terribly human thing to do, but what a guilty pleasure it is. 

And then Artorias speaks. “Ah, Sir Ornstein, I appreciate your kind words, but I did not come here for them.”

So much for preening. Ornstein’s smile fades. “Then state your business.”

Artorias reaches over and cups the captain’s ass.

"Hm. I see."

"A hundred pardons," Artorias says, "But I do ride tomorrow, and it may be quite some time before I return. It will ease my soul to know you, Ornstein, even if we are brief. Or you could know me. Or we could simply touch, that would sate me as well. I—"

A gold gauntlet reaches within Artorias’s hood to brush a stubbled cheek. He shouldn’t sound so young; he’s as old as they all are. He shouldn’t have such youthful eyes, such a charming smile. He shouldn’t be the things that make him so spectacular, and Ornstein shouldn’t find all of it an incredible turn-on, but he does, and so he leans in close and murmurs:

"Leave your armor on."

This time his words _do_ stun Artorias into silence, and as Ornstein settles on the bed, he gloats to himself again. Just a little.

There isn’t much room for foreplay, not when both of them are clad in various pieces of steel, but Artorias tries, pressing kisses to the captain’s collarbone. Ornstein hums contentment, draws a quick breath as cold, metal hands run down his sides. Artorias has always been a dextrous fellow, and that he can feel those clever fingers like this as well as in friendly sparring matches — matches that often ended in situations similar to this one, winner or loser spread over the nearest bench or table or hay bale, on one occasion, or if nothing horizontal sufficed, up against a wall, palms pressed against stone and hands tangled in gold-black hair and cries muffled lest someone hears—

A fingertip wriggles inside him and Ornstein has to bite down on a cry of his own.

"Pardon, pardon," Artorias soothes, mouthing at a nipple. A gauntlet lies discarded beside him, and his bare fingers are cool and slick, coated with — he brought lubricant with him?

 _Hope springs eternal_ , Ornstein thinks, and realizes what this means Artorias considers of his willingness to engage in activities like this, and he has half a mind to kick the Abysswalker out of bed and possibly straight through the door until the knight crooks his fingers against a spot inside him that turns the dark outside into day.

"Captain?"

He’s tired of thinking. Hitching his legs around Artorias’s hips, Ornstein shoots him an impatient glare that does justice to his helm’s expression. “Give me more, damn you.”

Artorias has to withdraw to uncouple his faulds. As his erection is freed, he sighs with relief. Already damp at the tip, he gingerly coats himself with slippery oil and keeps his eyes shut, trying not to think of the Dragonslayer spread beneath him. All that rich, dark skin, those corded muscles, that voice commanding him to fill him up and make him come—

Metal closes around the base of his cock, and the Abysswalker moans.

"Well?" Ornstein asks, stroking him gently with his thumb, "What is it? Are you going to have me or not?"

Swallowing the lump in his throat — his captain can undo him with only a few words, and he shouldn’t find it an incredible turn-on — Artorias shifts in closer, presses himself against Ornstein, and slides inside until they are fully connected.

For a moment, neither one can move. Artorias pants as Ornstein clutches around him. He’s like satin, blessedly hot, threatening to melt higher function. _Selfish_ , the Abysswalker thinks, and reaches to stroke the captain’s shoulder. “Ornstein—”

The growl that rumbles out of his partner reminds Artorias his lion motif is well-deserved. “Say pardon again and you shall taste my lightning.” Ornstein leans up on his elbows, and although Artorias cannot see his eyes he knows they will be alight. The knight stands six inches taller than he and has the _proportions_ to match, and he _does_ ache, but if he plans on being gentle he will kick him out the _window_ instead. “ _Move_.”

Artorias reconciles himself with the notion that if he has survived being bitten by dragons, he can handle this. Setting a slow pace at first, as Ornstein gradually relaxes, his hips snap faster. In the privacy of his room, the captain moans freely — and loudly. _Our fearless leader is submitting to_ me, Artorias thinks, and his heart throbs with fierce desire as he lifts Ornstein’s leg higher, inches in a little more. The difference is all it takes to rub him against that place again, and soon Ornstein’s moans have evolved into cries.

"Do not stop," the captain barks, ever the commander. He pulls Artorias down, gauntlet clutching silver steel through his hood. His other hand is wrapped around his erection, pace caught somewhere between mindful caution and frantic lust. "Do not _ever_ stop!”

Artorias groans and gives in, losing all semblance of rhythm. All that matters now is this burning intimacy. Trailing soft nips where Ornstein’s helm meets his flesh, he buries his face in the crux of his shoulder and bites down, earning him a shouted word from the _colorful_ side of a soldier’s vocabulary. As he tongues over the welt, he thinks _something to remember me by_ , and his hips stutter as orgasm overtakes him.

When the room stops spinning, Artorias becomes aware of two things. One: Ornstein, panting and sweaty, has also found completion, which pools hot and white on his belly. Two: his shoulder his bleeding. Gingerly extracting himself from within the captain — wincing sympathetically as Ornstein hisses — the Abysswalker moves to cover the wound. “Pardon.”

Ornstein finally kicks him, and if he hadn’t just had some amazing sex there would be a knight-shaped hole in the wall, but as that is the case, all he earns for his trouble is a quiet grunt mostly for his benefit.

Artorias doesn’t particularly feel like moving, but if he doesn’t get some of his armor off he’s going to overheat. Pushing his hood back, he exhales slowly and runs a hand through coal-colored hair. There’s a concoction of pleasure, weariness, and anticipation for tomorrow brewing in his belly, and he doesn’t like it.

"Artorias."

Ornstein sits up just enough to remove his helm and place it beside the bed. The gold-black hair plastered to his temple could belong to any whore, but the brilliant gleam in his eyes radiates the confidence of a dragonslayer. Looking into that gaze, the Abysswalker feels he can accomplish anything.

"Stay. For the night."

That he can do. Settling against the captain, Artorias presses their lips together in a kiss, and Ornstein allows it.

It will be quite some time before he returns, after all.


End file.
